


Elementary, Dear Brother

by surrealmeme



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brother Feels, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-08-31 17:15:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8587003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surrealmeme/pseuds/surrealmeme
Summary: It's really quite elementary, brother mine.Of course I do, dear brother, it's elementary.





	

            It is here we set our scene, not in fair Verona, but the gloomy English countryside. There lies the Holmes estate, a sprawling building grey as the sky it stood against. If one went close enough to a certain wing, one could faintly make out the song of the violin, sometimes frenzied, other times melancholy, or angry, or, rarely, exultant. Today, the melody carried an unmistakable tone of resignation, despite the upbeat, major keyed piece. This was easily explained if one was aware of the inhabitants of the home and the “visitors.” It was the final day before the resumption of school after the winter holidays and the preferred timing for arguments regarding academics and the future. Both of the visitors found it extremely odd that voices had yet to have been raised, and one of them was waiting for the disappointment, demands, and anger soon to be directed at him. Thus, the violin.

            _“William Sherlock Holmes!”_ A shrill, unpleasant voice and a bored, dry thought. _Oh yes, here it is, finally. I had been hoping to get it over with quickly. Shame._

            Rubbing his chin where it had been pressed against the violin for hours, Sherlock walked down the stairs at a leisurely pace, knowing that it would further anger his parents. However, its effect would be insignificant compared to how it incensed David and Victoria Holmes to see their youngest son’s utterly unaffected, uncaring, and nonchalant face. Even Mycroft was mildly amused by it, as he looked down upon the three from a small landing made to look like a balcony. _What, one would think they’d be used to it by now. Both Sherlock and I wear it, although he does so in a rather blatant manner._

            The argument proceeded in the normal fashion:

            “William!” David Holmes sharply said – now, this irked Sherlock, he detested the name William and all the tradition and expectations it stood for in the Holmes family. As acknowledgement, Sherlock shifted his gaze to be primarily directed at his father, who continued, “what have you done these past weeks other than fiddling with chemicals, scribbling down people’s personal details, and endlessly screeching on that accursed violin!”

            This pattern continued for a while, Sherlock’s parents becoming angrier and more irrational as their son showed no signs of hurt, shame, remorse, his own anger, or any response at all. As attacks on him proved insufficient, they shifted to those involving Mycroft, targeting the superiority complex only Mycroft knew Sherlock had. _For how he acts, he’s really quite easy to read,_ Mycroft had thought. To all others, Sherlock appeared as though he had a god complex instead, fodder for the very common prejudice and ill feelings towards him.

            Their mother grabbed a paper from the end table beside her. Printed on it were Sherlock’s grades from the first term of Year Nine, alongside those of Mycroft’s from five years ago. Victoria brandished them at Sherlock, jabbing at the differences with a perfectly manicured fingernail.

            “There is a twenty-three percentile point difference between your highest grade and Mycroft’s lowest! There is no reason for your grades to be so low!”

            Sherlock’s eyes darkened at the mention of his elder brother. Usually, Sherlock couldn’t decide if he hated or admired Mycroft; today, he loathed the man.

            “Didn’t you say you “loved science” or something when all you would do was peer into that microscope, ignoring your family?” David demanded. Sherlock’s response was mental: _Yes, the only time when “family” holds any meaning in this house. Everyone here is aware of that affair you had, broke off, and resumed a week ago, and that’s only because you found out you had gotten her pregnant._

            “Then why is it that your science – chemistry, at that – class has the lowest marks?”

            The answer was plain – it was boring and full of irrelevant information. Besides, nothing was ever even slightly elaborated on, so there was no point in the class existing. Sherlock near-imperceptibly raised an eyebrow at his father’s words offering no reply, save for, “I couldn’t be bothered to try.”

            The elder Holmeses burst into rage, and Mycroft silently slipped away into the hallway where he was out of the line of sight, should anyone look up. Both David and Victoria yelled at their son, past the point of caring what words they hurled. Used to this, quite sadly, Sherlock didn’t really care what they said either. Just the fact that it was said to hurt him, but even that had greatly lessened to a dull throb in the background. Mycroft had taught him how to push it away and that ability, to conceal emotions even from yourself, Sherlock thought to be the most important thing he would ever learn.

            “You were always so brilliant; we had such high hopes. But you – you insist on _squandering_ your brains to spy on people, and I honestly couldn’t be surprised if you ended up in a prison cell one day!” Sherlock’s mother screeched.

            _Oh. They went far today,_ Mycroft thought from his vantage point, considering if he would perhaps need to be somewhat worried. 

            Typically, Sherlock would respond to such a comment with dismissive, subtly sardonic words; however, he stiffened a little and simply gave a terse nod before turning heel and walking back up the steps in a gait he poured immense effort into appearing as nonchalant and unaffected it had been when he had descended the flight.

Once he heard the _click_ of the door and the _chak_ of the lock, Mycroft padded over to Sherlock’s room, standing around a foot away from the door, thankful for the thick carpeting that muffled his steps. Usually, Sherlock would still be able to hear him but the distraught state he was in worked in Mycroft’s favor. To anyone else, it would appear as though Sherlock was simply angry, indignant, stubborn, and overly petulant as he barricaded himself in his room to sulk. But one must remember that this certain tactic of emotional repressing Sherlock was so keen on was developed by Mycroft, who could identify the minutiae that alerted him of Sherlock’s heavy use of the method, as if going through a checklist.

            _His breathing – not shallow, that’s intentional, but much too even. It’s a conscious effort. The silence – no signs of movement, that’s impossible for someone like Sherlock, always afflicted with ennui. Everything is concentrated on clearing everything from his mind._ Mycroft obviously couldn’t see Sherlock, but was sure that he would be either be sitting cross-legged and straight-backed or sprawled out on the floor, trying to lose himself in the melodies, movements, and measures of a violin concerto either way. For a moment, Mycroft considered picking the lock and entering the room to comfort his dear brother. He instantly thought better of it, an infinite list of things that could go wrong rushing through his mind, and returned to his own room and the thick, dry tome on British government.

 

-an aside-

 

            _He fingered the small, thin, razor-sharp knife at his belt and the pistol in his coat’s inside pocket. Slipping barefoot through the carpeted hallways, silent, he reached the master bedroom, picked the lock, and entered. As he had thought, only a single person slept in the massive bed; the lady of the estate. He then sought out her adulterating husband, soon found in the second-grandest suite, sleeping like the dead he was soon to join. His throat was slit and his wife thereafter shot. The gun had been taken from the home; thus the bullet could not be traced to one he himself owned. The murderer waltzed through the home to confirm a fact he already knew to be unquestionably true._ “So little Mycroft and Lockie never knew about their poor, disturbed, disowned brother Sherrinford.”

-the return-

 

            The workings of their dysfunctional, broken family made it so that there were no devastated, hysterical aunts, grandparents, uncles, or cousins phoning in frenzy to divulge the tragic happenings of the past night. Instead, Mycroft found out through his second news-checking of the day, which occurred at noon; Sherlock did so through the analyzing of the countless whispered rumours uttered by virtually everyone.

_"Years ago, remember that scandal they tried so hard to cover up? When their son killed that man and pleaded not guilty on mental illness?"_

_"They erased his existence from all the records, not even just those connected to them. Legally, he doesn't exist."_

_"Sherrinford Holmes, his name was."_

_"But how do they know it was him? You've seen the family..."_

_"You can't mean their other sons killed them!"_

_"Just look at them. No one in that home is above killing each other."_

Sherlock snorted. If those ignorant gossipers had any shred of resourcefulness, they would have conducted a basic Google search to see that Quod Autem, the impossibly snobbish boarding school he and Mycroft attended, has begun its second term yesterday, requiring the Holmes brothers to have arrived two days ago; David and Victoria were murdered last night.

There was minimal difference in the lives of Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes now that their parents were deceased; the two spent most of the year at Autem and had an icy relationship with their parents kept civil through strategic balances of niceties and mutual ignoring. Mycroft would inherit the family estate, as he was of age, and David’s “minor” seat in the government would fall to him as well, to be kept, maintained, and controlled in the background, something Mycroft had been long groomed to do.

Of course, the two brothers felt _something_ , it was just that they both rejected the fact that they were able to, thus ignoring and refusing to acknowledge it. This proved to have rather undesirable consequences for Sherlock, who didn’t have Mycroft’s power, amassed through strategic threats and taking advantage of rumours.

“You killed your parents, didn’t you, you messed-up little trust-funder? Tryin’ to get your inheritance early, eh? Bet your brother’ll turn up dead too.”

Ninety-nine days out of a hundred, Sherlock would have responded with a snarky, superior reply; today just so happened to be his “off day,” for reasons he couldn’t name. Sherlock simply shoved past, hands fisted in pockets. The comment had affected Sherlock much more than he thought was normal – which was not at all – or that he was aware of – he didn’t know it was what had put him in such a dark mood. Yes, Sherlock had an unpleasant relationship with his parents and also possessed a rather twisted set of morals, but he would never turn against his family in such an irreversible way. Upon entering the dorm room he shared with Mycroft, Sherlock seized his violin and bow, drawing out angry, distressed notes.

Mycroft returned before Sherlock could finish the concerto; he was reaching the climax, with majestic, frantic highs and lows. Sherlock's eyes were closed and his jaw was set; to Mycroft, his little brother simultaneously looked so much older and so much younger than his thirteen years. "Sherlock," Mycroft said, unsure of how to proceed and skirt around Sherlock's toxic mood, something that had only rarely happened. Mycroft usually was able to get a legitimate conversation out of Sherlock, as they both spoke that odd, emotionless, baiting language in which one had to decode the hidden meanings of phrases and inflections. He was ignored, and the violin grew louder, something not dictated in the worn sheet music. Mycroft stood in the dorm, still wearing his coat, waiting for Sherlock to finish the concerto. He often played this certain piece when distressed – Violin Concerto in A Minor, by Dmitri Shostakovich, and Mycroft could tell Sherlock was nearing the end of the final movement.

Sherlock’s playing did not cease at the close of the piece. Instead, he improvised a simple melody linking the end of Shostakovich to the beginning of Mendelssohn. Mycroft quietly sighed through his nose and draped his coat over a chair and went to take a shower; he would talk to Sherlock afterwards, for as much Mycroft denied his alleged “soft spot” for his brother, it was close to unbearable for Mycroft to see Sherlock like this, so affected by the words of someone so far inferior to him.

Sherlock missed a note and mercilessly scraped the bow over the strings, harshly cutting off his playing. _So petulant_ , Mycroft thought, and opening the door in the thin “wall” separating the dorm, Mycroft went to speak with Sherlock, and was cruelly rebuffed.

“Mycroft, I couldn’t care less about whatever “concerned” talk you’re planning on having. It would be much appreciated if you _got out_.”

Mycroft’s eyes widened. Yes, Sherlock was always rough and abrasive in his manner of speech, but never this much to _Mycroft_ , his _brother_.

“Sherlock! You _know_ you can’t speak to me like that and that you’re needlessly acting the child you pretend to everyone you’re not. If you expect to be treated like an adult, act like it, _brother mine_ ,” Mycroft shot back, regretting every word.

Later, there was another quarrel, caused by the regret and shame of both Holmes brothers and their stubborn pride that refused to voice apologies. Somehow, it made both Sherlock and Mycroft remember an incident from their childhood, when Sherlock was six and Mycroft eleven. Seven years had passed, yet both of them recalled it clear as day.

“Whoa, how’d you do that, Mycroft?” Sherlock had marveled. To this, Mycroft, immature and addicted to the feeling of power and superiority that came with being an older sibling, had responded with a quiet, disdainful scoff.

“It’s really quite elementary, brother mine,” he had mocked Sherlock’s wonder at Mycroft’s science experiment; it had won a first place prize of 120 pounds. Insignificant now, but the world then.

Sherlock, who had just barely begun his schooling, had innocently asked, “What does “elementary” mean, Mycroft?” slightly stumbling over the big, new word.

“It’s for describing something so unbelievably easy, simple and basic that anyone should be able to understand it,” Mycroft had coolly said, exaggerating the definition. In truth, the project was not elementary at all, but rather challenging, even for Mycroft – of course six year old Sherlock couldn’t comprehend it.

Hurt by his brother’s words, Sherlock exclaimed, “I’m not stupid!”

“I never said you were,” Mycroft had responded with an expression then foreign to Sherlock. “But seeing as you’re instantly so defensive, we see that you must clearly think so yourself.”

Mycroft had then left, leaving Sherlock confused as to the full and true meaning of the sentence, but greatly hurt nonetheless. He was later found quietly crying, the child-sized violin lying abandoned on the floor after a screeching failure.

  * ••



 

 _“Oh?_ Got a rude awakening, eh? Now that you’re off your high horse and doing algebra exercises with the rest of us,” a gangly, beady-eyed boy remarked as he leaned against Sherlock’s desk. “What, your grades aren’t what they used to be and Mummy’s angry? Wait – she’s dead, and they say you did it!”

Sherlock scoffed. “Do shut your mouth, Anderson, your words insult even the meager intelligence of everyone here.” An “everyone except me, of course, my intelligence is far from meager,” was nonverbally added to the end. Sherlock then returned to the math problems, which he was only halfway through with – math had never been his subject. He finished the sheet minutes before the end of the class, proceeding to shove his things in the standard-issue messenger bag and leaned back against the wooden desk chair, staring off.

Anderson smirked, nudging his friend Something-Donovan. "Oi, Holmes!"

Sherlock didn't answer or show any sign of hearing him.

"Hah, you on opioids or something?"

" _No,_ heroin," Sherlock deadpanned.

Unfortunately, all three shared their next class, a secondary German course; Anderson and Sherlock squabbled over the pronunciation of _'rache –'_ revenge. It was really something insignificant, but Sherlock's foul disposition from the previous day had carried over, and he already had an irrational streak in him, surfacing at the worst possible moments. Now, German happened to be Anderson's best subject, something Sherlock found out by hacking into Autem's student database one rainy Sunday afternoon when he was bored. Sherlock had never cared for the class; he simply took it because the location was convenient. However, Sherlock loathed being compared to Mycroft and reminded of his mental inferiority, regardless of their age gap, and it had been happening far too often. So, just until mid-term, when the grade report was officially released, Sherlock would actually _try_ and apply himself. _It's like a personal challenge,_ Sherlock justified to himself.

So, Sherlock, due to this and the disliking of Anderson, spent the class pointing out and correcting Anderson's technical mistake when they appeared and consistently giving far superior answers and explanations, right after Anderson had just responded. The teacher humored Sherlock, extremely surprised as to his "effort" and "proactiveness."

Anderson consistently grew angrier and Sherlock cockier, until their "quiet" argument nearly reached the point of coming to blows. Both boys were assigned a detention, which didn't bode well with Mycroft, and again, the Holmes brothers had an argument, both leaving tired, dissatisfied, and alienated. Neither of them knew how to remedy the situation, so, during the following days, they avoided each other and kept all interactions a formality to prevent any further altercations. And so the days went on, until mid-term reports, when Sherlock brought back near-perfect marks. However, that didn't matter at all, for Mycroft's grades for Year Nine's mid-second-term just so happened to be perfect.

 _Oh, screw it,_ Sherlock thought. _I can't ever be as smart as Mycroft._ And thus, Sherlock returned to what he had always done, his grades plummeting to perplex and dishearten the few teachers who still had some degree of hope for him. Sherlock now cared even less about his schoolwork and skipped the next day's classes, choosing  to perfect and master the several violin pieces he had lying about the dorm. He plunged himself into the music for the next few weeks, plowing through the school's diverse selection of sheet music and doing only the bare minimum of work to prevent detentions. Sherlock's classes were spent idly composing links from one piece to the next, a refined form of what he had hastily and artlessly done in order to ignore Mycroft. The music kept Sherlock engaged and occupied, and the Holmes brothers, due to Sherlock's improved mood, thought their relationship was slowly rebuilding – perhaps they would even tacitly forgive each other. Wrong.

After those three weeks, Sherlock was bored, more so that ever due to the contrast. Quickly, he became irritable, moody, and more sensitive, prompting an uneducated, bigoted individual to call out and ill-constructed taunt:

"What, are you on your period, Holmes? Some gay tranny, aren't ya?"

"Homosexuality and being transgender have nothing to do with each other, and that's a derogatory term that only applies to trans women," Sherlock coldly answered.

"Oh yeah, _you'd_ know."

"Actually, any reasonable person would know. Clearly, you're not one of them."

Sherlock pushed past the boy, who returned to his group of friends, darkly muttering. Sherlock entered one of the science rooms and pulled out a microscope from the cabinet – there was some kind of loophole for students to be able to do this during lunch, he remembered. Sherlock pulled out a small plastic bag of slides from one of his coat's large pockets. The two he intended to analyze were two lung samples that he had obtained through connections and several strokes of luck. One was a normal lung of someone that committed suicide at age 37; the other was the lung of another who had committed suicide at the same age, but he had smoked casually, on and off. Sherlock had heard of the relaxing effects of nicotine and found it compelling; if not for age regulations, the fact that Mycroft had never smoked, and, almost as an afterthought, the health concerns, Sherlock would probably have been keeping a pack in the dorm by now.

Not exactly the best words to hear from a thirteen year old.

  * ••



Sherlock returned to an empty dorm; odd, for Mycroft would be enjoying another rich, generously portioned meal by now. Sherlock caught sight of a post-it note on the table, with the words _Out with Lestrade; may not be back until late. Studying,_ neatly written on it, the opposite of Sherlock's illegible scrawl when he took meticulous notes on _his own_ experiments and projects.

Sherlock thought nothing of Mycroft's note. Opening the small fridge and scanning over its contents, he decided he wasn't hungry and flopped onto his bed, searching in vain for something to occupy his racing mind.

 _Bored..._ It started, then went out of control on an unpredictable path at a breakneck pace. _Experiments, the lungs, smoking, no, what about patches, maybe I'll research nicotine... no, already have, it was useless... if I had alcohol this would be the time – can't it_ just be over?! _Not suicidal, though, I just with it would be_ silent for once! _Too smart, too fast, too bright and at the same time, too dumb, too slow, too quiet, too dull._

_I need a distraction._

And so, Sherlock opened his laptop and read over some of history's most complex, gruesome, terrifying, and immoral crimes; he used these to design the perfect murder in his mind, playing it out from the killer, the victim, the police, the detective. Sherlock eventually fell asleep due to sheer exhaustion, never knowing the Mycroft never returned, for he simply didn't want to deal with Sherlock. Mycroft regretted this after an hour and rang Sherlock to let him know he was coming to the dorm. Asleep, Sherlock didn't pick up, again changing Mycroft's mind. _He doesn't want me there anyway; let's not make it worse than it already is._ Such a shame that Mycroft did.

Thinking that Sherlock needed to be alone, Mycroft left early in the morning, leaving both Sherlock's breakfast and dinner in the fridge, and returned either very late or not at all. As a week passed like this, Sherlock began to feel abandoned, and thus, _sad,_ the emotion he abhorred most of all. And he was _ashamed_. Sherlock was the one who had pushed Mycroft away and forced him to leave because Sherlock wanted to be alone. And yes, it was nice for the first few days, but Sherlock had been counting on Mycroft soon returning to bother him once again.

Sherlock had always tried to make everyone – his parents, relatives, teachers – give up on him so that they wouldn't impose all of their stupid, traditional expectations on him. But _Mycroft_ – Mycroft understood how Sherlock's mind worked; he was whom Sherlock had always idolized and looked up to, even when he teased and ridiculed Sherlock. Mycroft giving up on Sherlock was the one thing that Sherlock couldn't bring himself to even consider happening.

Giving a heaving sigh, Sherlock sat down on a bed, hanging his head so that his hair fell down and obscured his vision. His thoughts had nearly physically hurt to acknowledge, and all Sherlock wanted was for the constant flow of ignored emotions, regrets, ideas, thoughts, and knowledge to simply _stop_ for once, their chaotic, overlapping white text to disappear and leave the unmarred black canvas of a calm mind.

Sometimes, and _only_ sometimes, Mycroft would achieve this by getting drunk. He would do it on a weekend, at Lestrade's, whom he had somehow come to trust, making his home a convenient location. Mycroft didn't care for the sluggish, hazy feeling that came with progressively becoming intoxicated; he preferred taking 100-proof vodka in shots until he lost consciousness. However, he would occasionally have a little of the whiskey in the dorm – not even a full drink – when he was feeling stressed, and Sherlock's thoughts dangerously strayed to the third-full bottle in the cabinet.

 _There's not much left and it's relatively strong... Besides, it's not like I have to finish the bottle... It'll probably burn and be disorientating so I won't like it anyway,_ Sherlock reasoned with himself. He crossed the room to the general kitchen area where the spirit was located and pulled out the glass bottle, forgoing a separate glass or water. Sitting back down, Sherlock stared at the dark amber liquid, deliberating. _Nothing's going to happened if I just sit here,_ he eventually decided and opened the bottle, raising it up to his lips.

As he had expected, the whiskey _burned_. But it also warmed his chest in a way he couldn't decide if he liked or not. Sherlock took a few more sips, progressively growing larger as he got used to the sensation, still ignorant of the option of diluting the alcohol with water. Soon, Sherlock began to feel dizzy and lightheaded; slowly losing control, the part that Mycroft hated. But in this, Sherlock was very different from his brother. He no longer had to _think_. He could be relaxed. Slowly, the whisky washed away the incessant white words and even dyed his black, empty mind a beautiful, faceted shade of dark amber. Sherlock smiled as his hazy, unfocused eyes closed.

  * ••



And there Mycroft found Sherlock, sprawled out over the bed with an empty bottle of whiskey loosely held in his pale, delicate hand, as it appeared when one was too far away to see the many calluses earned through violin. Sherlock's face was emotionless and peaceful; it was an almost beautiful sight when Mycroft tried to ignore how it had made its way on to his precious brother's face.

Mycroft had half a mind to wake Sherlock, but, crushed with guilt and regret, found it to be simply too cruel. Instead, Mycroft resigned himself to a fitful sleep, constantly broken by the thoughts of a shot glass, empty, slipping from his grip and shattering on the floor the previous night.

  * ••



Sherlock woke hungover, a great departure from the quiet equilibrium he had felt the night before. Waking with an unpleasant groan, he rolled over to his side, trying to pull the blankets over his head, and realized he was lying on top of them. Sighing, he reluctantly pushed himself up and off the bed, trying in vain to ignore his raging, throbbing headache. Stumbling, Sherlock pulled back the comforter and crawled underneath it, dragging the heavy fabric upwards so that it would block out the light and noise in the room. Even though the actual sound of Mycroft's computer keys were now muted, Sherlock could hear them clearer than ever in his mind. _He's probably writing some email that's gonna land me in rehab,_ Sherlock darkly thought. Sighing again, Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to find a more comfortable position, knowing it would be impossible to do to his mind's line of thought. The regret washed over Sherlock in waves, each more powerful than the last, until a massive tsunami cam crashing down on him, and he drowned.

  * ••



_I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry._ Dark voices in a dark, watery world, distorted by the black water in which a flash of amber could sometimes be glimpsed. The liquid, despite how numbingly cold it was, burned and seared.

  * ••



"Sherlock," a voice said from what sounded to be very far away and separated from Sherlock by walls filled with water. " _Sherlock,_ " it repeated, clearer, closer, and louder. "Are you – _are you alright?"_

" _Mycroft?"_ Sherlock mumbled. "How... how much did I drink?"

Surprised Sherlock could remember that much, Mycroft answered, "a third of that large bottle of whiskey. It was _80 proof_ ; that's _40% alcohol_ , Sherlock. Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?" Mycroft's voice had risen from its low whisper, but he was careful to keep it in check due to Sherlock's state.

"I know," Sherlock quietly said. "I... _I'm sorry."_

Mycroft was shocked, and it only escalated when Sherlock continued.

"For everything the past few weeks. I, um, shouldn't have treated you like that. Sorry."

The last several words spilled out in an ashamed, embarrassed rush, and Mycroft honestly couldn't understand what Sherlock had said. But really, did it even matter? In an unexpected, uncharacteristic, utterly impulsive act of brotherly compassion, Mycroft moved to awkwardly embrace Sherlock. Sherlock didn't quite flinch, exactly, but slightly tensed then relaxed into it.

"I know," Mycroft said. "I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have argued or left you alone. I'm sorry Sherlock."

_For more than you could ever imagine. For belittling and teasing you to the point of tears when we were younger. For never saying or doing a thing when Mother and Father did the same. For accepting every gift and inheritance without showing any concerns as to you, who had received nothing. For running away from my problems and stress by drinking myself into oblivion. For never showing how much I care for, worry, and love you, Sherlock. For being a terrible older brother, all these thirteen years._

"I know, Mycroft," Sherlock said. "It's alright." Mentally, he added, _It's truly alright, dear brother. Of course I forgive you; it's elementary._

 

 **Extra.** Mycroft, although sure Sherlock would never get drunk out of desperation and the search for oblivion again, still located all the hidden bottles in the dorm, dumped them out, and refilled them with water or grape juice.

 


End file.
